


only another lover, with love like mine, could understand

by Vellev



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood, Blood Play, Bruises, Improper Medical Practices, Internalized Homophobia, Intimacy, M/M, Needles, Stitches Fetish, Submission, Wound Tending, as much as my beta wants it, but hubert does get a little taste........, is that a thing?, medical fetish, self deprecation, service topping, there will be no wound fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24185917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vellev/pseuds/Vellev
Summary: Hubert bites his lip. He’s seen blood many times before, in many different situations. He’s inflicted dozens of wounds on people, and seen dozens of wounds inflicted. He knows there’s an inherent beauty in the grotesque, a beauty that he’s long admired. But, he can think of few things he’s seen in his life more beautiful than Ferdinand von Aegir, face wrecked and blood matted into his hair.In which Hubert discovers a fetish before he discovers love, and spends a decade trying to reconcile the two.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 42
Kudos: 193





	1. only another lover

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [@oversized_frog](https://twitter.com/oversized_frog/status/1259927352785678338?s=20)'s idea on twitter, and it’s haunted me ever since. My mind has only been full of Hubert having a lot of feelings and sewing some stitches. So, here you go, (what will eventually be, if my pre-edited draft if correct) 14k words of Hubert having a kink and having a lot of feelings about it. What kink you ask? It involves blood, intimacy, and love. Other than that, I don’t know how to describe it, so...read on. 
> 
> (Title from _Notes from a Bottle Found at the Beach at Caramel_ by Evan S. Connell.)
> 
> (Also, I love my beta, [GuiltyBystanders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuiltyBystanders/pseuds/GuiltyBystanders), so much, and can't recommend [her currently updating multichapter Lorenz fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24183487/chapters/58247110) enough.)

Contrary to popular belief, Hubert doesn’t spend that much time giving leering looks at his peers. He’s much too busy for that. Sure, once or twice will he give them a good staredown, just to strike that bit of fear into their miserable little hearts and remind them how easily he could remove them from this mortal plane. But not often. So, sometimes he stares, but usually not. He keeps his eyes on his own paper during exams, and strictly in front of him at the sauna.

So how he gets a glimpse of the deep purple mark on Ferdinand’s underbelly as he stretches before training is beyond him. The sunshine is blazing, and Hubert leans against one of the wooden posts supporting the structure of the training hall, secluded to the shadows lest he’ll burn. It’s not like he was looking at Ferdinand—it’s not like he had any reason to. The man is insufferable at best, he’d rather keep his eyes away if the option was available. He reminds himself, it’s only so long that they have to keep this charade up. Soon, Ferdinand’s precious nobility would mean nothing, and those who ride on the coattails of their illustrious names would shrivel up and die. Soon, Ferdinand himself would be nothing, and Hubert wouldn’t have to bother with the man anymore.

So he lets himself get an eyeful, no matter how shamefully, now. Ferdinand stretches his arms over his head, using one to press the other to his back by the elbow. Hubert can almost see his shoulders tense and relax. His clothing is too tight—this might be because the fellow schoolboy is actually still growing—and the movement of his arms makes the fabric of his loungewear shirt pull taut, exposing an expanse of flesh. Ferdinand’s skin is lighter there, having never seen the sun of day, unlike his tanned and sunkissed arms and face. Still, he’s nowhere near as pale as Hubert, which is why the pronounced bruise marring him is so surprising. 

The bruise is on his right side, near the v-shaped dip of his hips and pelvis. It could have been easily gained by something innocuous. Ah, how clumsy Hubert knows the man is. He most probably walked into a table, or a doorknob, or a bedpost. It means nothing, just an idiot of a dandy not having a sense of spatial awareness in the thick body he’s slowly growing into.

Ferdinand’s shirt lowers, and it should all be over. 

But, in those months of endless reconnaissance, waiting for his lady’s trap to spring, his eyes keep straying back to Ferdinand’s skin. 

Marks appear. Marks fade. On his arms. On his jawbone. Endless little bruises on his knees. Eventually, Hubert concludes that he must be getting them from training. Caspar hits hard, Lady Edelgard harder. And, with the sniveling little brat’s obsession with overcoming the soon-t0-be emperor, he challenges her again and again, gets beat to a pulp every time, bears new bruises littering his skin.

Hubert likes seeing them, in an innocent sort of way, he tells himself. They’re a mark of the man’s weakness, his ever-apparent inferiority to Lady Edelgard. Who could compare to her, though? Hubert, too, was just a tiny shadow in her graces. Yes, The world will fall to her, and soon the man that calls himself Ferdinand von Aegir will be just another of her many subjects. The bruises, for a while, only serve as a reminder of that.

* * *

At first, when Lady Edelgard announced her plan to attend the Officer’s Academy, Hubert had opposed the idea. Didn’t they have more important things to do than masquerading around as privileged school children? Did they really have the time to waste to attend classes that taught them either things they already knew or, worse, things that there would be no need for after their revolution?

He grows fond of the students of the Black Eagle House, though, soon enough. As much as he can grow fond of anyone when he knows that inevitably half of them will die for their revolution, their country, their emperor. That’s all in due time, though, and a school is a surprising but rewarding place to build and train an army.

Their victories are countless. They slaughter hundreds of enemies in their time, each battle more fruitful than the last. The Black Eagle House dominates in everything they participate in. Of course, they conquer in the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, sending poor prince Dimitri whimpering to the sidelines after grounding each and every one of his teammates. Claude is a more exciting opponent, a proud tactician with a smug smile, and Hubert relishes outwitting him, seeing him fail. The Black Eagle House constantly destroys their opponents in each monthly competition at the Training Grounds. It is their Dorothea who humiliates the other Houses’ measly dancers, flexing her years of unparalleled training to win the White Herring Cup. Their House is awarded the most intense missions each month, providing them with more and more opportunities to showcase their fervor and skills.

It all has something to do with this new suspicious professor, of course. Lady Edelgard and Hubert have discussed it in secret, wondering how the new presence will change their machinations. Overall, they decide that while the professor cannot be trusted, the exponential power they bring to the House must be utilized. The professor must be kept under close watch, but for now, Hubert and Lady Edelgard will play their games, let them keep their secrets. They’ll find them out soon enough. 

They see battle many times in Garreg Mach. With battle, comes wounds. The Black Eagle House is lucky enough that none of their members have fallen in battle. There have been no casualties across the houses, actually, but the chance of it lingers in Hubert’s mind. Casualties are a given in war. They’re a reality. Statistically, some members of the Black Eagle House would fall even before they saw the revolution. 

In fact, some barely make it out of battle. Jeralt hadn’t, the old fool. It’s laughable, really, the whole pageantry of it. Seeing him fall, the look on the professor’s face. A battle with a real death shakes the whole school, though, and the attitude of everyone’s daily lives change, just a smidgen. A few weeks after his death, it’s still hard on his classmates, but they must strengthen before the next mission. It should be simple, a quest to Hyrm territory, a short battle, bandits, or something. 

Seeing Ferdinand take a gauntlet to the face does make him stop in his tracks, breaking slightly from his battalion formation. The man falls off his horse. There is blood, Hubert can see it from even from a few feet away. Well, the mighty did fall, didn’t they? But Ferdinand is back on his feet in seconds, and the skirmish goes on. 

Only fifteen minutes later, the battle is won. 

Their team looks something awful. Bernadetta has a bruise on her brow, Caspar a cut on his cheek that he won’t shut up about leaving a “cool” scar. Linhardt is, for once, actually overworked, rather than just complaining about a workload that doesn’t exist. Which, somehow, leaves Hubert of all people, tending to the moderately injured students. Or student. Single student. It’s just Ferdinand, nose entirely out of place, blood in his hair.

Hubert doesn’t stare at him when he kneels down to where the man has propped himself up against a tree. Someone has already helped him remove his armor, and he looks so much smaller without it. His shoulders appear thin. 

“Why your armor does not include something blocking the face is beyond me. It seems like quite an important part.” The medical kit sits to his side, open. Some of the gauze tumbles out, in danger of touching the ground, so he picks it up to wipe some of the excess from Ferdinand’s face. 

Talking probably hurts quite a bit, and his voice is nasal and stuffed. He sounds entirely unlike himself. “‘The professor needs to see our faces.”

“Sounds like a horrible reason to nearly get beheaded.” When Hubert looks back to Ferdinand’s face, ready to start putting the cooling pads onto it—

But, ah. That was quite a lot of blood. 

It streams down Ferdinand’s face. His already split lip is entirely bloodsoaked. It streams down his chin, staining his collar. It looks like he’s rubbed at his face once or twice since a good amount has been smeared across his right cheek, where it’s now dried, sticky, and cracked. 

Hubert bites his lip. He’s seen blood many times before, in many different situations. He’s inflicted dozens of wounds on people and seen dozens of wounds inflicted. He knows there’s an inherent beauty in the grotesque, a beauty that he’s long admired. But, he can think of few things he’s seen in his life more beautiful than Ferdinand von Aegir, face wrecked and blood matted into his hair. 

He lifts the cold cloth, holding it up to Ferdinand’s face. He pulls away from it a bit, saying something about his sensitive noble skin. Hubert places his other hand on the back of Ferdinand’s head and guides it down so his nose presses against the cold towel.

“Tilt your head forward. We can’t have the blood dripping down your throat.”

“But it hurts.”

“Well, it is broken, isn’t it? I would expect there would be some pain.” He holds the cold cloth there, seeing the blue fabric darken and purple as it soaks up the blood. 

Ferdinand is quiet for some time after that, sitting as patiently as the man can while Hubert holds the bloody cloth to his face. He switches it out for a new one, but first wipes the drying blood from Ferdinand’s visage. He looks only a bit cleaner, as the blood has sunken into his pores and stubbornly sticks there. It makes him look dirty like he’s just been rolling around in the mud. Hubert almost wishes the sun hadn’t started setting so early, as the world looks all the more orange. 

He knows some medicine mostly in case of emergencies. If there is a situation where Lady Edelgard’s life is in danger, he’d much rather attend to her himself until a trusted healer could be found. He can’t screen every random battalion healer, so he needs to know some basics to keep her alive until a qualified monk comes along to do the job for real. 

This is no emergency, but he enjoys it far more than one. He likes being able to press against Ferdinand’s nose, see the man squirm just a bit at the pain of it, pretending to stand strong at his fussing. 

“Do you think it will be permanent?” Ferdinand asks him, out of nowhere, seemingly. 

“What?”

“The break, do you think it will… ” Ferdinand takes a breath too deep, winces. Hubert finds himself mesmerized by the pained look on his face. He’s usually so prim, so proper, so revoltingly noble, afraid to put anything but the best face forward. But now, in pain, there’s no way to hide from his true expression. Hubert adores it, and would rather punch himself in the face than admit it. “I do not know. Scar is not the word for it. Do you think it will disfigure me?”

It must pain him to say every unnecessary word, of which they all were, and yet, he powers through. There’s blood in his teeth. Something deep in Hubert aches.

“Disfigure, no. A broken nose may never reset, though. It may become crooked.” It probably would. Hubert found no problem with it. With all of the battles ahead of Ferdinand—if he stuck with their cause, of course, unlikely given his noble compunctions—more would mar his pretty face than simply a crooked nose.

Pretty. Ah.

Ferdinand bemoans something about how his particular nose shape was passed down through the von Aegir line for generations, and he easily tunes him out. Hm. Pretty.

Hubert’s unfortunate attraction to men wasn’t news to him. He’s admired many men in his lifetime. He’s vied for the attention of the cook’s son so many years ago. The image of the apprentice gardener reaching up to cut a skyward leaf was a frequent unsavory fantasy of his. He had imagined kissing men before, all too many times. Of course, as a noble himself, the thought was preposterous. He was to serve his Emperor and bear a child that could serve that who came after her. His disgusting little attraction to men didn’t matter much, not compared to the duty of the von Vestra family. More importantly, there was no time for kissing, women, men, or anyone else while a revolution was to happen. Why put someone in danger so? It was most likely he wouldn’t survive much longer, logically. Why hurt someone like that? So, as much as he wants to kiss a man, any thoughts of such are kept carefully tucked under the covers of his bed late at night.

But Ferdinand. Oh, Ferdinand. He’s never wanted to lick the blood off someone's face before. 

The thought follows him on their trudge back to Garreg Mach. Ferdinand now holds his own handkerchief to his nose, less bloody than before. He’s moping, and Hubert is struck once again by his hatred for him again. It’s just a damn broken nose. In this battle, people had gotten hurt far worse. Battalions had retreated. Even Caspar wasn’t complaining about the cut on his cheek.

Ah. He steals a look at Caspar. A purely educational look. For some reason, the blood doesn’t look nearly as striking against his pale skin. No, the way the bright red had dripped down Ferdinand’s tanned skin, the setting sun illuminating him as he leaned back against the rough bark of the tree. The blood in his teeth, matted into his hair, staining his shirt collar. Nothing about Caspar could paint a picture half so pretty as that. And he had been the one to soak that blood up, he who held the cloth to his face. Ferdinand had trusted him with it, didn’t wait for some healer who didn’t know up from down. No, he’d let the maggot Hubert was kneel by him, let him get his blood all over his hands. 

He shouldn’t be trusted with it. No, what had he done to deserve such an image? Only blood, murder, gore, a planned reason. It was not a picture he should be allowed to paint in the dark and nasty recesses of his mind. For, in truth, it was Hubert who would taint that vision, even as Ferdinand’s blood stained his hands. 

He tucks the image away in some perverse corner of his mind, to only be uncovered in the depths of the night when everyone was asleep and wouldn’t hear heavy breathing from beneath his covers.

* * *

The sun rises on an Empire at war. 

To think they would have truly gotten to this day makes Hubert’s heart swell. There is blood and gore everywhere, bodies lay lifeless on the fields, and all Hubert can think is, they’ve made it.

To Hubert’s disbelief, the entirety of the Black Eagle House stayed true at the moment it mattered most. Through the betrayal, through the risks. Mere youths, children, some of them, stayed true to the true Emperor’s side. Simple students had become legions of a new dawn. 

They are commanders, all of them. The battalions they were each assigned as students have become real infantry, real cavalry. They must each and every one make decisions, real decisions, and lead the Empire, all of Fodlan, to reality. They expose secret after secret of the church, and the war rages on. Her Majesty looks for the professor for some time, but eventually they too, even with their mystery and power, are forgotten as another casualty of war.

Emperor Edelgard makes proclamations. They spend hours after war meetings, deep into the night, discussing what the new world will look like without nobility to shape it. They speak of economic booms, they speak of canceling taxations, they speak of tearing down castles. Their dreams are closer than ever, now so close that they can speak of their plans aloud without fear of jinxing them. 

When they pen up proposals for new laws on marriage, Hubert feels more powerful than he had when he killed his father. Perhaps because it feels like spitting on the old Marquis Vestra’s newly dug grave. They speak of marriage without the rules of nobility or crests, marriage without economic ties or dowries. At what age an engagement can be set up, that one must agree to the marriage their parents set up for them before the engagement can proceed. They speak of marrying for love over politics or money, and they speak of marriage between the same gender. The night they draw up the plans, they see the morning rise before their work is done, and Hubert will never admit to shedding a tear as he lays down in bed after, dreaming of rough hands and stubbled kisses.

The battles become harder, which must mean they’re hurtling towards their goal. He grows closer to his fellow commanders. They share meals, they make gifts for each other. There are birthdays, there are losses in each family. Houses fall. Risks had been made.

He becomes unlikely friends with, of all people, Ferdinand von Aegir. They share—god help him— _tea_ together. Furthermore, they share laughs, and dreams, and one day, when they end up touching hands while admiring a sunset outside of the Great Hall of the monastery, they share silence, as they don’t move for a very long time.

Hubert never tells Ferdinand of his lapse of judgment one day at a cliffside in Hyrm. He never tells him of how many times he indulged in his urges, late in the darkness of his room, imagining Ferdinand’s blood on his tongue. He thinks of it ever so often, the way that the cloth hung damp and cold in his hands as he pressed it to Ferdinand’s nose, how the sunlight strikes Ferdinand’s visage just so, in a way that carves the crook in his nose from marble. 

The next time Ferdinand is wounded in front of him isn’t in battle at all. No, Hubert doesn’t even see him get wounded. Instead, there the man is, at Hubert’s door, hair frizzy and frantic, blood on his hands.

“Do you have a medical kit?” he asks, a beat after Hubert opens the door.

He takes a better look at Ferdinand. For reasons Hubert doesn’t want to think about, Ferdinand’s trousers are off, and all he wears is a loose white sleeping shirt. He, with the hand that’s not currently staining Hubert’s doorframe with blood, presses down on a quickly reddening cloth on his lower thigh. 

Hubert makes a small, disapproving noise. “Come in. Try not to stain anything.”

“I was just trying to sharpen my javelin, and well, I suppose that my hand must have slipped.” He hobbles in and sits in Hubert’s bed. He surely didn’t hear Hubert tell him not to stain anything since Hubert can already see blood dripping onto his sheets. He can’t quite find it in his heart—or in his nethers—to tell him to move and so, Hubert goes to grab the medkit he keeps sitting on his desk without saying anything. He’d always thought it would be the Emperor coming in for a bandage in the night, scab picked clean after one of her nightmares. Not a dandy without a noble house to back him up, half-naked and covered in blood.

“Your hand slipped,” Hubert repeats, wondering if his tone of voice adequately conveys how stupid Ferdinand sounds. 

Ferdinand just laughs, as Hubert comes down to kneel beside his bed, drawing the wounded leg closer.

He wonders, how had Ferdinand known Hubert was here, and not in some meeting? How had he known that he would have a medkit on him? Why come to Hubert, and not Linhardt who was surely in Caspar’s room beside them, sleeping his life away as always? How had he known that Hubert would patch him up—had the medical knowledge to patch him up properly in the first place—instead of making Ferdinand do it himself? Why here, why now? 

He removes the cloth, to look at the wound itself.

“That is a pillowcase,” Ferdinand informs him. “It was the closest thing on hand.”

Hubert doesn’t care. The pillowcase falls to the floor beside Hubert, and the wound is in front of him.

It could be much nastier. Just a leg wound, mostly tissue, not close to any arteries. It certainly looks bad though, flesh rendered, parted two ways, so much blood flowing one could barely see the slit itself. Blood pours from the wound and trickles down Ferdinand’s bare leg, soaking onto his red hair, and down to one bruised foot. Hubert feels his heartbeat quicken and needs to shove the idea of putting his mouth to that stream of blood out of his mind. That wouldn’t be sanitary at all. 

While it is a flesh wound, it certainly does need some attention. “You’re going to need stitches.”

“Really? Are you sure?” Ferdinand asks, petulant.

“Yes, I’m sure. Stars, how did you do this again? Polishing your lance?”

“No, no, sharpening my javelin, as I said.”

The basin of clean water Hubert has is his room soon stains pink as he dabs blood away, hoping to clean the wound. He hasn’t put his medical practices to use very much, so there’s a bit of fear at doing the job inadequately. But no, he’s worked on a truly frightening number of corpses before, had to carve flesh from still breathing chests. This was surely accomplishable.

“Whatever are we going to do with you, Ferdinand?” he says rather than asks and is almost immediately disgusted by the affection in his voice.

Ferdinand’s leg tenses and relaxes under his grasp as he holds it steady. Eventually, as the water in the basin reddens, the bleeding begins to let up, and soon there is a clean gash, deep in Ferdinand’s upper thigh. Hubert wonders, absently, if the man always, ahem, sharpens his javelin with his trousers off. Is he the type to sleep naked? He pushes the thoughts from his perverted mind and inspects the wound, now only bleeding ever so gently. The tissue doesn’t look to be too out of place—in fact, it’s quite a clean cut. Some of the flesh is more torn than sliced, but it shouldn’t be too difficult a job. Yes, he’s certainly equipped for this.

“You’re lucky your javelin was so sharp already. I don’t think this will be too bad. You’ll heal sooner rather than later.”

“Do you think I will be able to ride? I fear my horse will be more frustrated with a recovery process than I will!”

Hubert lets his hand touch Ferdinand’s thigh, positioning the leg so the wound faces him most easily. Saints, his leg feels so powerful underneath Hubert’s grasp, and he has an image in his mind of squeezing, seeing the blood gush out once more. “Why don’t we decide that after you’re stitched up? Now. This is going to hurt.”

“I am ready,” Ferdinand tells him. And then he yelps at the alcohol poured over the wound, and squirms in the bed. “Seiros, Hubert, you said it was going to hurt, not that it was going to sear like Ragnarok.”

“You said you were ready.” Well, Ferdinand had said it. And Hubert had poured a little extra on. Ferdinand’s face looks as good contorted in pain as Hubert had remembered it, but somehow, now, as time passes, what’s even more beautiful is how his face relaxes and mellows at the way Hubert gently rubs at his unwounded thigh.

“Are you afraid of needles?”

“Terribly.”

“Then I advise you to look away, von Aegir,” he says. The needle should be clean, but he douses it again in alcohol for good measure. He knows the thread is clean, the medical kit was bought for this intention, after all, and it’s tucked into a special case, away from the open air. 

He positions the forceps over where he plans to place the first suture. 

“Is it in yet?”

“You would feel it if it was in, Ferdinand. It’s a needle.”

“I know, I know,” he says, plainly. “It is just, well. I am nervous.”

Nervous. It should be pathetic but something happens in Hubert’s heart he didn’t know it was capable of. There’s a warmth for this man, this bumbling idiot, who’s nervous. He wants to rub his hand on Ferdinand’s thigh, dip his fingers into the dripping slit there, but also knows he needs to stay focused on the task at hand. Stitching someone up was a two-handed task, after all. 

So, for one quick moment, a lapse of judgment perhaps, he places a single, gentle kiss against Ferdinand’s knee, far away from the wound. 

He feels Ferdinand’s breath pause, and wonders for a moment if he’s gone too far. He speaks so close to Ferdinand’s leg he worries about his breath getting on the wound. “I’m going to take care of you.” 

The needle breaches Ferdinand’s flesh, and the man’s breath stays inhaled. Hubert wonders for a moment what Ferdinand might be thinking about. Is it him? Could his heart be racing the same way Hubert’s was? Or is he too overwhelmed by the pain to think of anything at all, delicate dandy as he is?

Hubert’s movements are mechanical, and his hands don’t shake, even though he feels like his heart is. He passes the needle out through the other side of the skin and unlocks the needle driver to lock it on the other side. 

Ferdinand releases his breath. Maybe it had only been the nerves then.

He ties the strings off. Unlocks the needle driver, relocks it. Positions the tissue forceps. Passes the needle through unlocks the needle driver, relocks it. Ties the strings, cuts them. Time falls away to Ferdinand’s heavy breathing. 

His leg relaxes the more sutures Hubert ties into his skin. Hubert becomes very aware, suddenly, that he is kneeling on the ground in front of a very half-naked Ferdinand von Aegir. He sees that the man has freckles on his thighs, and how he wants to press his lips against them. 

He unlocks the needle driver, relocks it. He’d like to kiss as much of Ferdinand’s leg as the man would allow. He positions the tissue forceps. He wonders if Ferdinand might squirm under his lips, or if he would take hold of Hubert’s neck, hold him in place. He presses the needle in. He wonders if Ferdinand might make use of his mouth, in this position, if there hadn’t been a war going on. He unlocks the needle driver, relocks it. Ties the strings. 

“It is not so scary anymore.” Ferdinand talks and Hubert is immediately pulled from his rapt focus on the wound. He has no idea how long he’s been taking, and when he looks up at Ferdinand, the first time he’s looked at him since beginning the suturing process, he sees that Ferdinand is looking down at the wound as well. “You have a very steady hand.” Ferdinand’s voice is light and breathy, and Hubert knows he’ll hear it at night. He notices, very abruptly, that he is hard. 

For once, he doesn’t know how to respond. So he doesn’t, instead just sewing suture after suture into Ferdinand’s flesh.

He cuts the strings of the last suture and drops the needle driver and tissue forceps into the water basin. The needle is placed in gauze to be cleaned again - and hopefully not lost. He uses the scissors to cut the strings tighter still, nothing but perfection in any of the jobs he performs.

“This is going to hurt, again,” he says, and his voice sounds quiet to even him. Hubert realizes that his own legs hurt with how long he’s been kneeling before Ferdinand. 

“I think I will be able to handle it this time.” Ferdinand is right, when the alcohol dabs back against his flesh, he doesn’t even wince, doesn’t shudder or squirm. 

Hubert wonders if Ferdinand trusts him a little more now, or if he somehow has grown numb to the pain. But no, there are no numbing agents, and he knows for a fact that the dandy can feel every small movement, every incision, every alcohol burn. Ferdinand is strong. He’s grown so strong these past few years, under Hubert’s eyes, and he hadn’t even noticed. Of course, time has passed, and everyone has changed. You might see Linhardt without bags under his eyes, enjoying a lazy picnic with Caspar. Or Bernadetta, outside and vibrant on a hunting trip with Petra. 

He hadn’t noticed how much his friend had changed. How the competition in his voice grew into compassion, compassion like the rat that Hubert is can never seem to muster. Seeing him every day, he hadn’t noticed how fast his hair grew, cascading down his shoulders. How his face had thinned out. Somewhere along the way, he’s become someone Hubert has barely noticed himself falling in love with.

He keeps this secret tucked away, when Ferdinand leaves his room, leg wrapped securely with white bandages. 

He doesn’t tell Ferdinand, his fellow brothers and sisters in arms, he doesn’t tell his Emperor. No one needs to know but himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please look at [ this art by @yaranaikamight on twitter ](https://twitter.com/YaranaikaMight/status/1265425171088732163?s=20) for this chapter!!!!! it is absolutely blowing my mind oh my god.


	2. with love like mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time moves on.

It becomes habit in the next few months. Each little wound Ferdinand gets, Hubert patches him up. Sutures, stitches, bandages. He becomes practiced in wartime medicine and realizes post-factum that the sutures he gave Ferdinand that first day were shockingly abysmal. They scar horribly, which, to be honest, most of his stitches do. Ferdinand never complains, not once, about the marring of his skin. 

But this is where they find each other, after nearly every battle, Hubert on his knees, patching Ferdinand up somewhere or other. It becomes part of their routine as much as afternoon teatime, or chess. Hubert settles into it, adoring every time Ferdinand trusts him enough to let him inside his skin. 

The world continues to spin. Hubert pleasures himself to the idea of his mouth on Ferdinand’s legs, stitches healing up nicely. Whenever Ferdinand leaves his room, bandaged and safe, Hubert’s hands are down his pants, thinking of sun-kissed skin covered in blood, gentle eyes looking down at him, and thighs shaking from the penetration of his needle. He thinks of Ferdinand above him, watching him closely, so trusting to let Hubert of all people with a needle so close to him. Hubert, who should be terrifying in every way, for that’s who he’s built himself up to be. He lets Hubert touch his most intimate places, inside the body, and lets his efficient hands take care of him. Hubert orgasms to just the thought of the stitches he’s sewed into Ferdinand’s skin so many times he cares not to count the number.

They take territory, they make alliances and agreements. Everything is right, and their dream is ever-so-close. 

Even the professor’s return doesn’t set him off track too much. It’s unexpected, unprecedented, and so suspicious it almost makes Hubert sick. But, the Emperor’s attitude improves with the return of her professor, and whatever makes her Majesty happy, Hubert will entertain. 

And everything is fine. Battles rage on. Claude falls in battle, and the pathetic, idiotic, _foolish_ professor lets him go. Alliance territory is theirs, and destiny is in their grasp.

When he sees Ferdinand fall as the Church attacks Garreg Mach, he thinks little of it. He’s seen the man rise again and again after taking hits, letting Hubert patch him up after.

But Ferdinand does not get back up. 

Hubert needs to fight on, for his life, for the life of his Emperor, for the lives of his battalion, for the lives of his friends. So he stays in formation and moves only when the former professor tells him he should. 

When Seteth and Flayn finally fall, it is not without damages for the Black Eagle Strike Force. There are many wounded, and entire battalions have withdrawn. Linhardt, Dorothea, and Bernadetta lay somewhere on the brink of death, monks, and gremories desperately trying to revive them. 

He’s at Ferdinand’s side as soon as the battle is over, his medkit beside him, trying to remind himself that he still had time, that he really could not have died so fast. 

Luckily, when he touches Ferdinand’s body the man groans deeply, like a dying animal. Which Hubert supposes, he technically is. 

His hands work quickly. He doesn’t shake. The gash in Ferdinand’s side seems too big, too grand, and Hubert doesn’t know how _how_ his tiny little needle is going to help. It feels hopeless, like Ferdinand’s life is slipping between his fingers, and he wants to scoop him up and tell him things he never thought he’d tell anyone.

“I am going to be fine,” Ferdinand says, and there’s no wheezing, meaning his lungs are likely intact. He does sound breathless, though, like he’s been stepped on by a monster. “You need not worry.”

“Ferdinand…” he says, and it sounds like he’s the one wheezing. Suddenly, he feels very small. He feels like just a young boy again, having convinced the entirety of his father’s dinner party that he can do magic tricks since he thought it’d make him look impressive, only for the cards to fall through his fingers. He feels how he did when he took his first exam, how he felt the first time he failed in front of Edelgard. And then, there’s something else there, something he’s buried for so long, and he feels like he’s about to cry for the first time in years. He is no medic, he’s not even passed a monk exam, he’s a joke, he just likes the way Ferdinand’s skin looks when it puckers ready for his needle, and now the man is dying in his arms.

“You know what you’re doing.” Ferdinand’s voice brings him out of his own thoughts again. The man looks up at him, and he’s so beautiful Hubert doesn’t know what to do with himself. He presses further down on the wound, but the blood won’t stop, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do if the blood won’t stop, oh flames. One of Ferdinand’s bloody hands comes up to touch Hubert’s shoulder, and he seems so weak, barely putting any pressure into his touch. “I trust no one more in the world than you to do this, and if I must die in someone’s arms, I want it to be the arms of someone I love.”

Hubert sees a color he didn’t know human eyes could register. He doesn’t know what he does, emotions dripping from his heart like the tears falling from his face. He swears there must be some magic there, because his mind goes blank, and then there he is, sitting beside Ferdinand, stitches where a hole once was. 

Ferdinand must have passed out at some point, because he’s stopped responding, eyes closed. But his breathing is still labored and heavy, and he’s alive. He’s _alive._

Hubert isn’t exactly sure how he ends up beside Ferdinand’s bed in the infirmary, but he stays there for some time. The rest of the Black Eagle House seems to be there as well. Caspar is ever-present at Linhardt’s side, who looks to be getting the best sleep of his life. Petra and Bernadetta stay glued to Dorothea's bedside. Edelgard and the professor are the only ones who don’t spend that night in the infirmary, off doing something together. At some point, when the moon even is falling in the sky, Hubert’s eyes stop stinging from tears.

Surprising literally everyone present, Linhardt is the first to awaken. His recovery is full—his crest has always been good for healing. He is told to stay in bed another two days but is somehow easily able to sweet talk Manuela into letting him rest in his own bed instead. He and Caspar leave, Caspar’s arm under Linhardt’s shoulder, holding him up. The easy intimacy leaves Hubert almost jealous, but he decided long ago that jealousy was an emotion he didn’t need.

Hanneman is the one who brings the group lunch that day. They eat it without much expression at all, even Petra’s upbeat attitude gone.

Dorothea wakes up the next morning, minutes after Petra has left to get herself, Bernadetta and Hubert a small breakfast after they stayed up the previous night. She had, apparently, hit her head, but the healing magic works much better once awake, and then she’s back to new. Bernadetta leaves with her happily to go surprise Petra in the dining hall. 

And then, it is just Manuela, Hubert, and Ferdinand.

Manuela is silent, seeming to understand that Hubert has his own thoughts he wishes to be left to. 

Ferdinand had said he loved him.

Perhaps it was said as a dying wish, something to leave Hubert with. A white lie in one’s last moment. Hubert couldn’t blame him if he did—Ferdinand had always had an appreciation for the dramatic. Leave it to him to make someone fall in love with him with his very last breaths. (But, of course, how could one wait to Ferdinand’s last breaths to fall in love with him? How was it that everyone in the world didn’t walk around thinking in their minds how much they adored a stupid fop of a man named Ferdinand von Aegir.)

Ah, because Hubert was in love, wasn’t he? In love with a man who tied flowers in his hair merely because he thought it would be fun. A man who could tell the difference in tea steeping times with a single taste. A man who hummed arias to himself while he rode his horse, and was so painfully dismal at cooking that they barely trusted him in the kitchen anymore. He was in love with the man who lay static in bed.

And to think that he used to get off on this. How many times had he spilled to the thought of him on his knees, fingers probing Ferdinand’s wounds as the man squirmed in pleasure as much as pain? He’d wanted to dig a scalpel into him, watch him spill onto Hubert’s bedsheets. He wanted to position himself between Ferdinand’s legs and heal every wound any dastard afflicted unto him. He had wanted Ferdinand to look down at him with those trusting eyes, and lean down and kiss him softly when he had cut the strings on the last stitch. 

Manuela brings him food in the night.

“You don’t have anything to be worried about,” she tells him, in that honest tone of hers that he appreciates. “He’s a strong boy. Anyway, he had a very good on-site medic.” When she winks at him, it doesn’t feel sexual at all but approving. He nods. “He’ll recover in no time.”

Hubert doesn’t know what “no time” is, but it stretches on days. He’s left there, thinking about Ferdinand’s mortality, and how, if these moments truly are Ferdinand’s last, how fleeting love must be. Would he be expected to truly forget about the man, move on, love someone else? Or maybe he’d take no partner as he’d always thought would happen when he dedicated his life to Edelgard’s cause. He’d always thought, surely there can be no one who can understand how the Emperor would always come before them.

And then, there is Ferdinand, who would put Edelgard in front of Hubert as well. Ferdinand, who knows everything there is to know about Hubert’s sorry excuse for an existence. Ferdinand, who he’s told about the second shadow war he fights in the darkness, how his days are filled with battle, and his nights filled with only more. Ferdinand, who always understood, nodded along a man of war himself. 

Edelgard visits the infirmary at some points, and Hubert can only do his best to reorganize his greasy, unwashed hair to try and look presentable to her. 

Thank the stars she doesn’t bring the professor. Hubert can only imagine the audacity the sneaking dastard would have to show up at Ferdinand’s bedside. Commanding him on when he obviously could fight no longer? Positioning him against two, no maybe three enemies just to draw them out of formation? Why would the commander sacrifice one of their best soldiers, their best commanders? It sickens Hubert, and he knows not what he’d say to the lying prick.

Edelgard doesn’t seem to mind, telling him, no, it’s fine that he’s not at this meeting, no, he should say here, despite his many but half-hearted protests. When she brings him a cup of coffee a few days in, he realizes how much his body had ached for caffeine, an explanation of the pounding in his head. And yet he feels awake, having done nothing but sit and think for a few days. 

When Ferdinand awakens, Hubert realizes in none of the one hundred-odd hours he’s been in the infirmary had he actually planned what he was going to say when Ferdinand wakes up. He isn’t even looking at Ferdinand when he awakens, not expecting it at all. He’s reading a book, actually, one he had found in Ferdinand’s room. A tale of someone’s travels to a new land quite unlike Fodlan. It’s a delicate and sweet story, filled with more emotion than adventure when somehow Hubert still imagined the man would still read books for children. Hubert certainly hadn’t had the time to read any books since he was a child. But no, Ferdinand’s room was full of various books written for adults, doing simple adult things like traveling to new places and falling in love.

“We did not retreat, did we?” Ferdinand’s voice says more than his heart does. The man talks too loud, perhaps like he always does, but in the quiet of the empty infirmary, he fills up the whole space.

“Ferdinand.” Hubert is scooting his chair up to Ferdinand’s bedside instantly, looking over him. He’s still positioned how he was when he was sleeping, and his eyes look so tired, but he is awake. It takes Hubert a moment to understand what Ferdinand was even asking about. Ah, the battle. “Of course we didn’t retreat. We won.”

“Of course. We always do.” Ferdinand’s voice is gentler now like he had heard himself beforehand. readjusted. They are silent for a few seconds, and Hubert finds that his brain rests for a few moments, for seemingly the first time in years. “How long have I been gone?”

“A few days. Three or four, I think.” Or had that first day counted? He tries to remember how the sun has risen and set through the crack of the curtains. “Ms. Casagranda said that you’d recover quickly. She told me that everything was in order.”

Ferdinand sighs, lightly. Or maybe it’s a groan? Oh, stars, it must be a groan, perhaps speaking was straining him. 

“Does anything hurt? More than it should?” Hubert asks, even as he sees Ferdinand take a breath to speak. 

“Ah—no. Well, I really am not sure how much it is supposed to hurt. I would imagine this much.”

“Ms. Casagranda has— some sort of herbs. Or some numbing spell she gave you, if you need any more, she taught me how to administer it while you were out.” She had, teaching him what words to murmur under his breath, what to will in his heart. He’d always planned on learning some white magic, get some skill in faith under his belt. But the medical field always held more allure to him more, and magic never felt as palpable as putting his hands to use on someone. But look where that had gotten him. If he’s only known a simple healing spell, Ferdinand might have been out of bed that very first day. 

“Ever the good personal doctor,” Ferdinand says, and he smiles, broad and beautiful. Hubert almost feels like crying again. “I do not think it will be needed,” he says. “I am actually feeling quite a bit more tired now.”

“Go back to sleep. Now that you’re...well… that you’re back, the healing magic will take better effect.”

“Good,” Ferdinand says. He adjusts his arms where they’re settled in bed. His hands look… unused perhaps. A little swollen. Hubert mentally flagellates himself for not massaging them while Ferdinand was still unconscious. “Thank you, Hubert,” he says, voice so gentle it pains Hubert’s ears.

Ferdinand does not close his eyes, instead just looking at Hubert. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s expecting something. 

Oh. His hand was not merely readjusting, but outstretched. When Hubert realizes that Ferdinand expected him to put his hand in his, he feels his face tense.

Was this really alright? Was this really something he, of all people, was allowed to do? But there Ferdinand was, holding his swollen hand to the skies, and who was Hubert to reject him? When someone like Ferdinand von Aegir offers himself to you, you do not reject him.

So he pulls his glove off and puts his hand in Ferdinand’s. His palm is rough, and a little colder than it should be, and Hubert reminds himself to tell Manuela to increase the warming spells on the room. 

Ferdinand smiles at him. “Well. Come now. Say you’re welcome.”

He can tell sleep is taking over the man, speech etiquette loosening. It’s one of the first times he’s heard the man lose his noble cadence, and some part of him wants to hear it more and more. “You’re welcome,” he rasps out, feeling like a monster speaking to a saint.

“Very good. We’ll need to work on your manners…” Ferdinand says, and his eyes close, and he slips away into sleep.

Hubert admits to no one the tears that fall from his eyes yet again in that infirmary, this time alone, with Ferdinand’s hand in his own. He’d always questioned when people claimed to try tears of joy in books, or at weddings or coronations. But seeing Ferdinand here, the memory of a smile on his still very alive face, Hubert weeps.

* * *

Ferdinand’s recovery is not speedy, but with Manuela’s magic, by the end of the month, he’s out of bed and walking around. He’s not ready for battle in the siege at Arianrhod but watches from the sidelines, cheering on his friends. 

The month after, though Hubert would advise against it, Ferdinand participates in the battle against the mad Faeghus king. The things they see that day do not quickly leave the mind. A former schoolmate transforming into a raging monstrous beast. A crazed archbishop covered in blood, retreating to distant shadows, but not for much longer. The death of a king, bloody and revolting. Hubert remembers seeing the body, and thinking in his mind, that yes. Even Dimitri was human, and he bled like one. As much as his death was necessary for Edelgard’s war against something bigger, even the king was human in the end and died in the same miserable muck everyone else did. His death wasn’t beautiful.

But the future in front of them is. A world that has broken free of the ebb and flow of history. A world not ruled by some false goddess wearing a person’s skin, but a world where humans dictate their own lives, their own decisions. Edelgard will carve that path, and bring that miserable maggot of an archbishop to her knees, and Hubert will have lived to see the day. 

Whether he will live to see the sunrise, he is unsure. While the Black Eagle Strike Force has not survived each battle unscathed, they have yet to suffer any true casualties. But, can such a record be upheld in a battle against this ancient beast who has acted in broad daylight for all these centuries? Some will fall. Some must. 

He runs numbers in his brain over and over. How many would be likely to die? How many of these precious people he has lived to call friends will die at the hand of the inhuman archbishop? He shudders to think of it.

But, as they march the road to Fhirdiad, his mind plagues him, and he lingers on nightmares he never wished for. What was the likelihood both him and Ferdinand would survive? It had to be low. Seeing an outcome where he would survive felt easy. Seeing an outcome where Ferdinand lived seemed realistic. But both? Together? Alongside? It felt too good to dream of. 

He has already lived what it felt like to see Ferdinand die, he thinks. He’s felt that sadness in his heart. But how much would it hurt, one, or two years from his passing? How might he react at Ferdinand’s grave, a decade later? Would he ever stop loving him? He knows not.

But then, he lets himself consider, what if he were to die? He always kept life close to him, for he lived it with a purpose. As miserable as he thinks his own pathetic existence has been, the service he has done for Edelgard speaks for itself. Without him here, she would have struggled much more in her vision, her dream. But after this battle? What then? How much would he be needed? Surely she would make use of him in fighting the second war in the shadows, but once she had captured all of Fodlan in her hand, how difficult would it be to wipe those skin-wearers of the surface of the planet? Surely she did not need him that much. 

And then Ferdinand…

How much would Ferdinand care? He knows the man feels things deeply, so surely he would be disheartened to some degree. As he would be for any of the friends he’s made these past seven years. But surely that smile could not hide so long, just because of the death of some underling? He would bounce back eventually, fall in love again.

This is what Hubert considers as they march, as they set up camp. Fhirdiad will be cold, he knows it, even in the Great Tree Moon. The cold already sneaks up on them like an assassin, and as he sits to remove his traveling pack and have a drink, he’s surprised at the numbness of his feet and hands. He expects a somewhat silent night before battle, expects those around him to be having as dismal thoughts as his.

But instead, the army is caught in jubilation, as if they had already won. There is food and drink, and somehow, instruments. He remembers, too late, that it is no longer just a mere Strike Force, but an army of battalions. They are strong, and they are living their days to the fullest. He sees his friends in the arms of their loved ones. Caspar and Linhardt peel off from the group and sit together on the cold grass, Linhardt’s head in Caspar’s lap. Edelgard and the professor are somewhere on their own, and whether they speak of love or war, Hubert knows not, only that he himself is not invited. Even Bernadetta, Petra, and Dorothea are amongst each other, Dorothea reading out to them from a rumpled looking journal in her hands. 

Which is why he should not be surprised when Ferdinand joins him on the dead tree trunk upon which he sits. He, somehow, is. Is he really the man Ferdinand would want to see in his last few hours?

Ferdinand outstretches his hands—ungloved—to the fire. “You know,” he says, and Hubert immediately shuts his mind, and opens his ears. Ferdinand looks at his own outstretched hands, and Hubert looks only at him. “I often loathed you and Edelgard when you first announced your plans, back at the Academy. I had thought I knew the world ahead of me, the path that I was to tread. And here I am, without title, without a clear future.” At this, Ferdinand looks to Hubert and meets his eyes. “And I must say I cannot imagine a situation where I would be happier.” 

Hubert feels his heart burst a little, and wonders whether he should be the one seeking medical attention with how frequently Ferdinand makes him feel this way.

“I think I have to thank you, Hubert. You and Edelgard. For showing me a life I never thought I would live. For offering me new experiences, a new world. When I think of being a Prime Minister now, following blindly in the steps on my father, the thought is painfully dismal. I would much rather be here, changing the world, with you.” Ferdinand always had a jovial lilt in his voice, which now, as they are reminiscing about all those years ago, Hubert realizes has grown fuller and deeper. 

“I am happy to hear you say that,” Hubert says, dumbly.

Ferdinand only looks at him, smiling. 

Ah. “You’re welcome,” he says, and the words don’t feel right on his tongue. He can’t think of many times he’s said them.

“Good. It is not only manners, Hubert.” Ferdinand says and pulls his hands away from where they hover against the heat of the fire, towards his lap. “There is so much I have to thank you for, and I would dearly like you to understand that you are deserving of all of it. I would thank you all day if I could.”

“That really isn’t necessary.”

“No! I mean—yes! It is! Hubert.” One of Ferdinand’s soft hands comes to his chin, touches him there, softly. Hubert immediately wishes he had gotten the time to shave this morning, but they had been on the road after battle, and he hadn’t had the chance. Of all the times for Ferdinand to bless him with his touch, and only to feel a rough patch. “Listen to me. You need to accept my compliments, for I have so many, and there is no use telling you them if you do not intend on listening.” 

Hubert cannot look at the rest of the encampment, for his eyes are locked onto Ferdinand’s. But he can hear the world around him, the soft playing of a fiddle and a guitar. There’s talk everywhere, so much talk he can’t pick apart any of the words. Somewhere, he hears the wings of a pegasus knight and the sharpening of a blade. “I cannot,” he says, at length. “I don’t know how I can accept them.”

Ferdinand’s mouth quirks to a frown. Hubert doesn’t know what he expected, because how was that an answer anyone could be satisfied with? But no, he didn’t deserve those compliments from a man with hair like spun fire, not a man whose house he tore down, whose family he imprisoned. “Hubert,” Ferdinand says, and his voice sounds unbearably close to pity. Then, he sighs. “If you will not accept that, then please at least accept this.” 

The press of lips are cold at first, but as Ferdinand leans into him, warmth spreads. They kiss by the light of the fire, Hubert’s cheek resting on Ferdinand’s hand. Hubert’s never kissed anyone before, but it is less worrying then he thought, just his lips gently pressed against Ferdinand’s. After a length of time Hubert has no way of gauging, Ferdinand pulls away from him, but only by an inch. He rubs his thumb against Hubert’s cheek, softly.

“I have wanted to do that for quite some time. So, even that I must thank you for.” 

Hubert lets a smile spread across his face. Compared to Ferdinand’s, it is not so pure, so honest, so true. And yet, he smiles anyway. “I may show you my good manners again, for one more kiss.”

Ferdinand happily obliges. They kiss the night away, while the celebration of a war not yet won surrounds them. Hubert only thinks of Ferdinand’s blood on his tongue once, and otherwise seamlessly melts into the warmth of his lips. 

* * *

A war is won. There is a second war, of course, a war in the dark that Hubert fights tooth and nail, but. Nonetheless, a war is won.

Ferdinand learns somewhere along the way, that becoming Prime Minister is not as painfully dismal as the man had once thought. Quite the contrary, the man flourishes as Prime Minister, and somehow enacts all the proclamations Edelgard and Hubert so dreamily made those years ago.

They decide at some point not to marry yet. It’s not like they keep their relationship hidden to any degree—they court, openly and sickeningly sweet, Ferdinand would have it no other way. Ferdinand brings him flowers to a secret war meeting. Flowers! Hubert sets up scavenger hunts so elaborate Ferdinand needs to ask his help on them with a prize of a series of pathetically embarrassing love letters. They get portraits painted of them, too gaudy and too large, to hang in their shared quarters.

But marriage, Hubert decides, is something that will wait for him until the full and complete destruction of Those Who Slither in the Dark. No, for now, they share dinner in the capital, picnics with wine and cheese in the gardens, and spats over the war table. Some years go by, and neither of them see battle for days on end. 

One morning, nude in bed when sunlight is only just beginning to stream through their window, Hubert takes notice of the scars that adorn Ferdinand’s skin. 

He remembers so clearly sewing up each wound, and the way Ferdinand had shivered underneath his hand every time. It seems laughable to think back on now, how they both hadn’t realized how hopelessly in love they were with each other. To Hubert, he has to smile at the way, back then in the midst of his youth, the most alluring vision in his mind was that of the man in front of him sliced open and willing to let Hubert slide his needle through his skin. Now, of course, he’s experienced far more than that with Ferdinand. The two have had more than their fair share of tosses in the sheets and have exchanged more pleasure than Hubert can count. But still, that youthful fantasy of feeling Ferdinand pliant under his hand while he repairs his weeping wounds stirs something in him again for the first time in years. 

His touch against that first scar on Ferdinand’s thigh, pale with age, causes orange-lashed eyes to flutter open. 

“Good morning,” Hubert tells him, after a moment.

Ferdinand smiles at him. “Good morning,” he says. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“What?” Hubert continues to touch the scar, now without hesitation or stealth. 

“You, naked in my bed, love.”

“It is merely how we fell asleep,” Hubert tells him because it is true. His hips still ache from use and dried cum flakes off of his stomach. 

“Remind me why, would you?” Ferdinand asks him, and Hubert has been with him long enough to take his cues. He leans to kiss the man and knows that he will never grow tired of how Ferdinand smiles and laughs against his lips.

“I was lost in thought,” he tells him, darkly. He positions himself above Ferdinand, the better for kissing.

“And tell me what it was you were thinking about.” Ferdinand laughs. “Oh, no! I can guess, I bet. Were you thinking of me, dashing in your arms?”

“Perhaps,” Hubert replies, between kisses. 

“Or maybe you were thinking of what might be on the menu for supper tonight.” 

“You’re getting colder.”

Ferdinand kisses him again, and again, and again. “Then tell me. I was never smart enough to be a mind-reader, you know. Those spells are much too hard.”

“I was thinking of you, that is all.” Because how can he tell him? How can he tell him that his idea of a night of pleasure at one point involved sticking his hands down his pants to the idea of Ferdinand’s torn flesh? Ferdinand kisses him all the same, though. His scars remain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is what actually gets that E-rating. i hope to have it up tomorrow, but i'm also in my last final exam period ever (whoo!), so it might not be until sunday night. we shall see. 
> 
> also, i have so few fire emblem friends! please come talk to me at [ @lawfulboi on twitter!](https://twitter.com/lawfulboi)
> 
> and i'm gonna keep mentioning it, but my fantastic beta, [ @aguiltybystandr](https://twitter.com/aguiltybystandr), is writing a fantastic [ multi-chapter claude/lorenz fic!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24183487/chapters/58247110) that i'm also betaing! you should defintely check it out!!!!


	3. could understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which multiple wars are won, and multiple treaties made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while i was "editing" this chapter i accidentally added around 2k words...whoops...
> 
> thank you for all of your kind comments! it truly means the world to me. 
> 
> as always, visit my lovely beta and best friend, [@aguiltybystandr](https://twitter.com/aguiltybystandr), and check out the [ repressed lorenz character study](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24183487/chapters/58247110) she's writing!

His lust for Ferdinand’s skin remains, somehow, though. He had buried it for so long, and now, whenever he bathes with the man he spends time studying each little marking. Had he been so sloppy? They shouldn’t have scared that much—no, healing magic would have never left such large marks. If he’d only been a little more careful in his youth, less over-confident, studied a little more, his lover’s skin might be a little more bare now. But he hadn’t, and Ferdinand’s flesh had taken the price. 

Ferdinand had never complained about it once, though, never sighed about the marring of his skin. But surely the noble wouldn’t have been happy about the blemishes. How Hubert has heard him complain over the years about every small imperfection on his form — which, of course, Hubert considers perfect in every way. Ferdinand would long bemoan little wrinkles on his face, his hairline, an odd ingrown hair from shaving. But never would he bring up the crook of his nose or any of the scars that Hubert had left on him. 

In fact, Ferdinand had thanked him for a good many things over the years. He’d thanked everyone in his life. He’d thanked Hubert for countless things, stitching him up, holding him just right, loving him, over and over, despite how much Hubert said he didn’t need the thanks. He’d thanked Caspar and Linhardt for loudly copulating that one day during the war, just so he’d have an excuse to go to Hubert to patch him up, anything to be closer to him. He’d thanked Edelgard for doing what had to be done, despite all of his criticisms and complaints. He thanked the world for accepting him and Hubert, whatever they were, whatever they have become. He told all of this to Hubert and thanked him for listening. And every time, without response, Hubert knows that he can only reply with “You’re welcome.” 

And so, it should be easy to erase the memory of Ferdinand taking his needle from his mind. It should be easy to forget about him being loose and comfortable while Hubert poured alcohol over his skin, just taking the pain that came to him. After seeing him fall like that, seeing him half-dead on that Hrym battleground, the thought of Ferdinand in pain should make his heartache — and it did! He would never wish to see his man lifeless and bleeding out ever again. But does he want to see him bleed. 

Nonetheless, all his attempts to shove the thoughts from his mind, the next time he takes Ferdinand to bed, the thoughts rise up in his mind again, like water at a boil. He has his man laid out in front of him, full of good food and good drink, as they celebrate yet another of Hubert’s small victories in the war no one knows about. Ferdinand’s laugh never stops sounding so beautiful, not after all these years. He flops around in the bed like a fish, and Hubert is enamored. 

“Get these trousers off, will you?” Ferdinand says. “They are much too tight.” It’s not like Hubert had been complaining about the tightness of his partner’s pants, but he obeys, unlacing the fastenings, and shimmying Ferdinand’s pants down strong, strong legs. And there, exposed to him, are years worth of battle scars on tanned skin.

 _By why not indulge, a little?_ He lets his mind slip. What Ferdinand doesn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

It’s not hard to lift Ferdinand’s sturdy leg up, and trail kisses down his skin. Each scar gets special treatment, and Hubert can taste the memories there.

Here an arrow wound, here an axe. He remembers sewing him up here, in some encampment near the Garreg Mach, Ferdinand’s blood pouring down onto the murky ground, staining at their boots. He remembers patching him up there, holding a cloth to his skin, and not quite wanting to stop the bleeding but doing it nevertheless. A sword here, another arrow there. Some merely from awful cooking mishaps. Not all of them required stitches, but Ferdinand had come back, over and over again, to Hubert’s efficient hands for everything, from bruises to gaping wounds. He lingers to kiss each scar, and the warmth rises in his chest as surely as his cock in his trousers.

Ferdinand is taking off his own jacket and shirt above, leaving himself beautifully naked above Hubert, all tanned skin, speckled with scars like stars. Hubert kisses up Ferdinand’s thigh, and sucks his own bruises there too until he arrives upon Ferdinand’s cock. Luckily, there were no scars in this most intimate place, though one on his inner thigh grows frightening close. He kisses around his cock there, too, watches the man grow harder as he avoids giving him the attention he deserves. 

“Don’t tease... “ Ferdinand sighs, breathless, but they both know that that particular order was never one Hubert was any good at following. 

But, he allows him something and puts his hand on Ferdinand to stroke him as he turns his attention to Ferdinand’s upper body. When he kisses the large form of scar tissue on Ferdinand’s belly, he spends extra time there. One false move, one wrong stitch, one more second of hesitation and Ferdinand would have been long dead, Manuela tells him years later, when he’s stopped worrying about it. The tissue there is thick, and he tries to recall the words that Ferdinand had said those years ago, about loving him but realizes that most of that time of his life was blocked away, emotions too deep to casually peruse. 

Ferdinand moans sweetly underneath him like always, shudders when he mouths at his nipples. He trusts Hubert, which is insane. Maybe somewhere in losing his family name, Ferdinand went as crazy as that old king of Faerghus, and that’s the only reason why he can look at Hubert with that hazy look in his eye and actually trust him, so intimate, so close. 

Because Hubert has spent so much of his life building himself into someone. He hesitates to think that it’s someone he’s not because he doesn’t really know who he was in the first place. But, this persona he puts on, all looming and full of pricks and edges, wasn’t made for loving. His body and his heart didn’t belong to a lover. 

But Ferdinand gathers him up in his arms and presses him forward to kiss him all the same. 

“You are in another sort of mood today, hm?” Ferdinand tastes good in his mouth, and oh, he wants to worship every scar on his body. Hubert nods, breathless. “Show me,” Ferdinand tells him, and Hubert doesn’t even quite know what the man means. Ferdinand’s hands cup his face again, but by now he’s learned the man doesn’t mind the scratch of stubble there, but revels in it, just as Hubert does when Ferdinand hasn’t the time to shave.

From there, it is easy to take Ferdinand’s fingers in his mouth. He lathers all his attention, all his love on them. He can feel a small raise on Ferdinand’s finger, a scar he never knew about before, probably from the kitchen, and instantly wonders why Ferdinand hadn’t come to him to fix it. But he supposes it’s too small for him to have ever done anything about it. The thought pains him for some idea. How he wishes Ferdinand would come to him for everything, every tiny nick. Even if he can’t do anything for it, something in him too dark and too terrible _wants_ to see. He had thought he knew every bump and every dip of Ferdinand’s hands but takes the opportunity to explore again, saliva dripping as he messily sucks as his lover’s hand. 

There is something too perfect about the opportunity to suck Ferdinand’s fingers. Well, Hubert jump to worship anywhere on Ferdinand’s body if it pleased him. But his hands were something else. Big, strong, with years of use. Ferdinand was a veteran, a fighter, hands not made for sitting at war tables like Hubert’s but made for heavy weapons and armor. And here they are, gentle and pressing against Hubert’s tongue in some replication of an act soon to come. He could spend all night there, sucking at him with nothing in return, just to feel the intensity of Ferdinand’s gaze on him.

When Ferdinand draws his fingers from Hubert’s mouth, he follows them forwards, desperate to keep kissing them. Ferdinand shushes him in a way only a former noble could. “Be patient, darling. There are other places your mouth could be put to better use.” 

And so he puts his mouth to better use. Ferdinand’s cock is the perfect length to drag his tongue up and down against, and he revels in the way that his powerful thighs squeeze against Hubert’s head. He uses his hands to spread Ferdinand’s legs, holds his squirming body in place so he can take the man’s dick into his mouth. Ferdinand is as loud as ever above him, letting Hubert coax moan after moan from of him. He digs his hand into Hubert’s hair—hair which Ferdinand himself had cut—and gives him small tugs and pulls as Hubert bobs his head. He hadn’t been good at this at first, but Ferdinand had always told him that his eagerness showed enough potential. He’d had enough years to learn what the man liked, and every time Ferdinand’s hands, rough and big, tighten on Hubert’s scalp, he knows he’s doing something right.

One of Ferdinand’s hands moves, and then he squirms underneath Hubert until a vial of oil appears at Hubert’s eye level. Ah. A silent invitation.

He’s gotten too good at uncorking the bottle without looking, mouth still lathering attention at Ferdinand’s cock. He can feel how hard he is in his trousers, but after those few first times, he’s been able to hold back from touching himself while he sucks Ferdinand off. At first, the idea of it, of being between another man’s thighs as a lover rather than a medic, struck a whole new feeling deep in his core, and he found himself spilling at the notion. But now, he’s able to spread Ferdinand as he sucks him and hear him groan from above without pleasuring himself. He’s gotten the chance to learn every part of Ferdinand. He knows all the spots inside of him that make him shudder, and he teases them, turning the man into a beautiful mess. 

He likes it when they do it this way. Ferdinand is warm inside, and squeezes around his fingers in the most amazing ways. Whenever Ferdinand focuses all his attention on Hubert, he doesn’t know what to do, out of his element. But, Hubert knows how to serve, and whenever he gets the opportunity, his heart shakes, and he can spend hours lavishing attention on his partner. 

Hours he does not have, though, as Ferdinand’s hips begin to quake underneath him, thrusting up into his mouth. He could lead Ferdinand to completion like this, easily, taste the man and swallow him down. 

But it’s Ferdinand’s whose hands draw Hubert’s head away. “That is quite enough of that,” Ferdinand huffs, sounding like an old housewife, and stars, Hubert loves him. “I want you inside of me. Fill me up.”

Hubert doesn’t need to be told twice. He struggles to unfasten his trousers with oily hands, though, and Ferdinand needs to rescue him. He undresses him fully, removing his jacket and his shirt, then his trousers and undergarments, running his fingers through the thin hair on Hubert’s chest. It’s so compassionate when Hubert only intended on removing his trousers just enough to get the job done. But no, Ferdinand always demands attention be shared in some way. 

He lifts one of Ferdinand’s legs by the thigh, fingers brushing against the scars there. “Are you sure you’re ready?” he asks him, quietly.

Ferdinand is loud as always. “Yes, Hubert! Saints, if I was not ready, I would still rather have you split me open than make me wait any longer.” 

Struck by an untethered bolt of lust Hubert growls as he pushes into Ferdinand.

The man is always a vision beneath him. His hair has only grown more beautiful throughout the years, even with Ferdinand’s complaints that it’s apparently thinning. It’s stunning, haphazardly spread across the pillows. The way that Ferdinand’s muscles squeeze together with how Hubert has him bent in on himself makes him want to lick over him all over again. Either Ferdinand is sweating in the Adrestian summer heat, or Hubert’s spittle hasn’t dried yet, for the thick hair on Ferdinand’s chest is still wet and clings to him. His cock is as rosy as his cheeks, and Hubert wants to kiss both forever. Ferdinand’s face is—of course—a delight. He’s always had a pouty sort of baseline expression, but like this, his face is squeezed up in some moments, and open and wide at others. Hubert loves to see his expressions change as he pushes in and out of him. 

He likes to go slow like this, see the way his cock disappears into Ferdinand, and stars, the man takes it so well. He’d always had his fantasies about Ferdinand, but nothing would ever compare to how well the man actually took a good fucking. Ferdinand’s hands come up, touching Hubert’s arms and shoulders. Though he’s nowhere near as strong as Ferdinand, Ferdinand still grasps at his biceps like they’re something to be fawned over. He listens to each sound Ferdinand makes, relishing each loud noise as Ferdinand’s moans give way to cries. 

“Yes, yes, Hubert, saints—” he pants out, his hands reaching up at Hubert’s shoulder, where he holds Ferdinand’s leg up to fuck him better, deeper. At that, Ferdinand moans louder, and his fingers scratch at Hubert’s arm. He knows that the man doesn’t like him lingering, not when they’ve been at it this long, so he quickens his pace, and fucks into the man quickly. “More, Hubert, I need you—please!”

Hubert knows Ferdinand’s form like the inside of his favorite glove, so he aims himself, fucks deep into his tight body, admires the way his muscles tense and release underneath him. He raises the man’s leg up higher, to give himself just a little more room to grab at Ferdinand’s cock, and strokes him quickly.

“Ferdinand, I—” he knows he is to say something, but what, he’s never quite sure in these situations. But, like always, there is Ferdinand below him, encouraging him.

“Please, Hubert, yes, talk to me, fill my mind, I only want to think of you.” 

Hubert doesn’t think, he only speaks. Whatever words that come to him, he voices them. “You’re beautiful, Ferdinand, you’re so—stars, I need you so much, I need more of you, I want to feel you _squirm_ underneath me.”

Ferdinand squirms, and Hubert’s mind flashes to the thought of his needle in Ferdinand’s thigh. “Deeper, Hubert, darling, I’m so close!”

“Make service of me, Ferdinand, use me for your pleasure, your pain, I need to make you mine, Ferdinand. In bed, at war, Ferdinand, I,” He feels Ferdinand’s body tighten beneath him, and he strokes him faster. “You’re close, aren’t you? Cum for me, Ferdinand, give it up.” 

Ferdinand spills over Hubert’s hand, thick ejaculate forming ribbons across his belly. Hubert pants heavily, slows his pace, and stops as he lets Ferdinand fall from his high. As the man breathes, gasping for air, Hubert’s eyes focus on the scar tissue on Ferdinand’s side and the way the cum drips onto it. Lust hits him like a wave crashing against a ship, and he almost feels dizzy, his hands growing numb where they clutch. He wants.

“Ferdinand, can I—” His words come out stilted, and there’s something at the pit of him that wants, monumentally more than he did a moment ago. It’s a feeling deep in his chest, and he swears, his mind turns off for a moment, replaced with a single desire. Thankfully, Ferdinand replies before Hubert needs to worry about putting his desire into words.

“Yes, Hubert. Show me what you want.”

Hubert finds something in himself he didn’t know he had. He fucks into Ferdinand without abandon, and he almost can’t feel the speed with which his heart beats in his chest, but he can feel his heartbeat in his head, can feel himself throb where he rams into Ferdinand’s body. Ferdinand takes it, finding himself moan just a little more at Hubert’s passion. “Saints!” He’ll say, or “Hubert!” almost in surprise at his usually passive partner’s passion. 

His eyes can’t get enough of Ferdinand’s body, to the extent that he knows not where to look. The crooked bend of Ferdinand’s nose, the knicks on his arms or his shoulders, or the deep textures scar tissue slathered with Ferdinand’s cum. 

He so dearly wants to own him, feel him inside and out. He wants Ferdinand to think of him whenever he sees any scar on his body, not the dastard that inflicted it. He wants Ferdinand to come to him over and over again, wishing for more stitches, for more patches, for more painful douses of alcohol. He wants Ferdinand to be covered in his markings, not just love bites that fade in a few days, but deep marks that will never fade over a lifetime. 

Now he feels like a man deranged. He is not himself, he thinks, his mind so empty except Ferdinand beneath him, his hands numb where they grip into the bedsheet. His pleasure flows through his body in waves, and he cannot think of the last time he let himself indulge so much. The large scar on Ferdinand’s belly, quivering as the man breathes heavy as Hubert takes him, the evidence of Ferdinand’s lust pooling there. 

At that image alone, he releases, pulling out so he can spill onto Ferdinand’s belly, their fluids mixing together against the old scar. 

He’s gasping after he finishes, and if he were a younger man, he thinks he’d be crying. Instead, he lets himself bathe in the pleasure, face twisted, and Ferdinand looks up at him with a smile.

“Well, that was something,” Ferdinand says, panting breath interspersed with laughs. There’s a single note of surprise in his voice, like Hubert is something to marvel at.

And. Ah. Had he gone too far? He fears immediately that Ferdinand knows something about him, something he’s not supposed to. He cannot speak it aloud. But it is Ferdinand after all, and surprised is a bit too close to scared than Hubert cares for. “I’m sorry, Ferdinand,” he’s saying, faster than he can mean it. He thinks of Ferdinand, bleeding out on some foriegn field, the life slipping from him. Bile rises in his throat. No, no, no. That’s not what he wants, that’s not what he had intended. This plague of his mind, he truly thought he had been cured. It’s not that he wants to see him hurt, it’s just that, well, he wants to see him hurt, but not like _that,_ not in that way. “If I went too far, then—”

“No, no, hush, Hubert. Not too far at all. Quite good, actually. I have been trying to get you to let loose for some time.”

“If I hurt you—”

“Oh, quiet. You did not hurt me.” And then, without precedent, Ferdinand swipes two fingers through the puddle of release on his belly. Huberts eyes follow it like a dog whose ball has just been thrown. And then, minx that he is, Ferdinand brings the fingers to Hubert’s mouth. “I think it will take a lot more than that to hurt me. Do not fret, though, we have time.” 

And they do have time. The time they have is well used. But, even as he lets his lover hold him close to his chest, strong arms wrapped around him and holding him close in the comfort of their sheets, Hubert must wonder if somewhere he has gone wrong.

* * *

The culmination of a silent war must be celebrated silently. 

Years of his life were spent eradicating Those Who Slithered in the Dark from the face of this planet. A battle conceived when he was only just a boy, who met a girl who he decided he would give his life for. It’s almost all he’s known for some time. And then it is over. They have won. 

For the first time in years, Hubert hugs Edelgard, in the middle of the war room, bringing the woman close to his chest. She is warm in his arms, though he’d always imagined her to be cold to the touch. She hugs him back all the same, her arms wrapped around his middle, tightening, squeezing him with her strength. They weep into each other’s arms that day in autumn, in an empty war room which no one knows is still in use, a battle won that they can tell so few souls about.

And the next morning, Hubert had to wake up.

It’s not like he would have liked a party. It’s not like he would have enjoyed some big celebration with wine and dance and music like Ferdinand and Dorothea require for each and every one of their birthdays. He wouldn’t have enjoyed it, revealing to the masses that there was another war to be fought. He wouldn’t even like a party with his closest friends and allies, all their attention on him, congratulating him. He doesn’t quite want to be congratulated. He doesn’t know what he wants.

But, it ends without anything. Without death, without some other tertiary battle to replace the fight in his heart. His fight is over. It is done. But he does not know how to make it truly seem so. 

He lays in bed for a long time that morning alone, Ferdinand long gone for his morning ride, presumably. 

Edelgard had informed him not to come in that day, that she would be celebrating with their former professor, and he would not be needed. She told him to take the day off, spend it with his lover, maybe finally get around to showing him the ring he’s been keeping in his chest pocket for the past two years.

It’ll be a miracle if the damn thing even fits Ferdinand’s finger. When he’d commissioned it those years ago from a Rysalkan jeweler, he’d thought Those Who Slithered in the Dark would be defeated within the month. Of course, as things come up, though, the ring sat heavy in his jacket, awaiting a day where Hubert wasn’t always inches away from the very clutches of death itself. 

But now it is two years later, and Ferdinand’s hands must have grown from age. They’ve both changed, in their own little ways. To read, Hubert now needs glasses perched on his nose. Ferdinand has grown some around his middle and is the perfect size for Hubert to wrap his arms around and surprise when Ferdinand doesn’t know he’s there. They’re in love, aren’t they? Isn’t that enough, without rings and the rest?

 _Just put it on his finger so I don’t need to hear you rabble on about it anymore. You’ve denied yourself too long, my friend._ Edelgard’s voice sounds in his ear. Ugh. It’s hard to think of it as denying when he’s indulged himself secretly so often. Dreams of Ferdinand’s blood in his hands, locked away. Thankfully, the war has kept him so exhausted he rarely has the energy to do much but melt into the arms of his lover. Fantasizing about him would take far too much effort, and too much complication. 

Eventually, he forces himself to get up rather than let himself wallow in his own anxiety over a tiny ring. Soon after, in the bathroom, he realizes that it’s already past noon. 

He can’t recall the last time he’s spent so long in bed without Ferdinand there to keep him. 

Without a schedule to keep to and palace to fuss around, he doesn’t know what to do but stay in bed, so he returns there. He decides to do what he’s seen Ferdinand often do before bed, settles down with another of his partner’s books. The plot isn’t gripping, and his mind wanders over and over.

Would this be what his life is now? Of course, there would still be things to run, order to uphold, but. What was he to do? He supposes that marrying Ferdinand could be something to keep him busy. He closes the book, determined that he is just tired, and the weight of his eyelids is what keeps him from what should be overwhelming joy at the battle’s end. Coffee always helped, to some degree. Even if it would just end up warming his hands and nothing else.

Outside, Ferdinand is doing something unseemly in the kitchen.

There is flour everywhere, and bags and jars of various things strewn about. Ferdinand wears an apron over a grey sleeping shirt and loose trousers. When he sees Hubert creeping from the room, his worried expression turns into a frown. “Get back in there! Is it not your day off? Are you not supposed to be sleeping in?” He waves a whisk at him.

“It’s already the afternoon,” Hubert says with a smile. “I think you overestimate how long one can sleep in.”

“You are not supposed to be out yet, shoo! It is not ready!” 

Hubert does not, in fact, shoo, but encroaches on his partner, and leans against him to press his nose onto the top of his head. “I loathe to think I have walked in on something so private.”

“Only you ruining your own surprise, actually.” 

“I’d prefer it ruined than staying cooped up any longer.” He kisses Ferdinand’s mouth this time, and yes, this could be something to distract him from the dismal days ahead. “So, what is it supposed to be?”

“A cake,” Ferdinand replies, glumly. “Only, well. The recipe called for alcohol, so I thought I would add some extra, because who does not want more elderflower liqueur, and I cannot get the eggs to whip to stiff peaks.” 

“You sweet fool.”

“Silence!” Ferdinand hisses but adjusts his grip of the bowl so Hubert can put his arms around his pillowed sides. “I am doing this for you.” Hubert hums into his ear but stays warm against his partner’s side. “Well, you seem to be in an affectionate mood today.” 

“I haven’t anything else to do.”

“That is a shame,” Ferdinand says. The speed at which his hand is attempting to whip the eggs is a little frightening. “You are a smart man. I am sure you can come up with something to keep you entertained.”

“Only you,” Hubert replies. And it’s true. Only him. He stands there, hands around the man for longer as he does something horrible to the mixing bowl, and he thinks of marriage.

Marrying Ferdinand would not be so different as things were now, he thinks. They wouldn’t act any differently, they’d be...just like this. So why go through with the torment?

But ah, wouldn’t Ferdinand love it? The pageantry of it all, the elaborate decor, the invitations, the outfits. 

The eggs never get to stiff peaks, and eventually, Ferdinand must begrudgingly throw the idea of baking a cake away. Hubert doesn’t even know what his plan had been—they didn’t have an oven in their quarters. Where he got the flour and the other miscellaneous jars was beyond Hubert. 

So, instead of cake, Ferdinand demands that he must make a celebratory toast. Hubert doesn’t see the point of a toast when it’s just the two of them, but he’s learned long ago that once Ferdinand has set his mind on something like this, it’s much easier to play along with his antics than struggle against them. Ferdinand serves out the remainder of the elderflower liquor and holds it up for the two of them. 

“To a great man,” he says, somewhat awkwardly. It was quite obvious he wasn’t preparing for a toast, but a badly planned cake. “A great man, who works tirelessly to create a better world, with no recognition for it. Long have I admired him who slips through shadows to commit the Emperor’s dirty work, and never wanted a single award, any parties. A man that I fell in love with, who only has wonderful years to come. I am eager to see what more worldly change he brings across Fodlan, for I know that even this insurmountable feat shall not be his last.” He gives a short nod, deciding that there is where he will end his little toast. Hubert laughs at his little haphazard speech, but smiles and drinks all the same.

And then, Hubert’s hands go out to grip the unnecessarily fancy bottle again. Yes. Pageantry. He pours again, filling their glasses again, and holds his gaze onto Ferdinand’s. “Let me.”

And Ferdinand’s eyes are too intense, slightly confused. “You have never been one for speeches, love.”

“Then let me attempt,” Hubert says. “For you.” 

He takes a breath, eyes burning. He’s too old to cry, he thinks, he’s been too old to cry ever since he was born. But his heart rises to his throat, and he lets out a cough in preparation. 

“To a great man,” Hubert says, somewhat awkwardly. Stars, he should have prepared for this more. He’s a man of preparation, of plan, and here he is, winging one of the most important moments in his life. “A great man, who has grown strong, in the face of adversity. To a man who has grown, and changed, and stood truer to a cause than any I know. To a man with sunlight in his hair, and love in his eyes.” He spares a glance up to Ferdinand, and the man’s hands are clutched up against his own chest, hopeful. “To a man who has brought more light to this dark man’s world than I ever thought possible. To him who has won my heart, despite there being no prize for it. To a man I cannot stop loving no matter how much I pitifully try.”

He should get up, he thinks. He should get on his knee, yes. It feels awkward, moving into the spot next to the table and chair upon which Ferdinand is sitting. To see the look in Ferdinand’s eye as he gets down on one knee, though, a position all too familiar to the couple makes every bit of dramatism worth it. 

“To a man I call friend, lover, comrade. A man I call strength, a man I call courage, a man I call warmth, comfort, and pride. A man that someday, today if he allows, I hope to call husband.”

Of course, tears are streaming down Ferdinand’s face, because he’s the type to cry at something like this. For once, his noble hands don’t know where to go, as they touch Hubert everywhere, his face, his arms, his shoulder, and then eventually around his back to pull him into a tight embrace. Despite the difference in their levels, it doesn’t feel awkward to Hubert at all.

“Really?” Ferdinand says, and his voice breaks, it sounds like there is snot in his nose. Hubert loves him.

“Of course.” He takes a second, and thinks. Speak truth. “I can truly not think of another thing in this world that I would like more.”

“Oh, Hubert, I —”

“I have a ring, somewhere, I just —”

“Oh, forget about the ring, Hubert. Come here and kiss me.”

Of course, after a good amount of snogging, and even more crying — from the both of them, this time, Ferdinand does want the ring, and wears it proudly on his ring finger. And of course, it fits, because the man is perfect for Hubert in every way.

This is how they end up in their quarters, drunk and jubilant before teatime. Without anything to do but enjoy each other, they’ve polished off yet two other bottles of the elderflower liqueur. Hubert has no idea where Ferdinand keeps pulling them from. They attempted to play a very drunken game of chess but failed so horribly at it that the pieces stay toppled over on the chess table. Their minds are too of their hearts, and their hearts are too full of the excitement of the matter. Husbands.

“Ah! I had almost forgotten about it!” Ferdinand wrenches himself from the couch they sit on. 

They had started at the table, where the empty bottles lay, then to the chess table, but eventually had retired to a couch so they could sit wrapped up in each other, the hands not holding glasses absently touching loose locks of hair or stroking against clothes. Ferdinand cannot stop looking at the ring, asking Hubert hundreds of little questions about it. No, it was not a von Vestra heirloom. Yes, the gem in it was real, yes it had been sourced ethically, yes, he had bought it _two years ago_ , now please stop asking.

Hubert is sad to see Ferdinand go so soon and watches him stand up. “I had a special bottle of wine, somewhere—I do not know,” Ferdinand says. 

“Special?”

“I have been saving it for some sort of special occasion, and I cannot think of anything more special than this.” He begins sorting through the living room area of their quarters, opening random cabinets. “I bought it—” he says, and takes a pause as he opens a cabinet, and lets out a little happy exclamation as he removes a wine bottle. “I bought it with the first money I ever earned on my own after Edelgard became Emperor. I have no idea if it is any good, it couldn’t have been very expensive.” Ferdinand deposits the bottle in Huberts hand, as he goes off to look for a knife to open it with.

The bottle doesn’t look like much. Something from a small vineyard, but not particularly fancy looking. The idea of it warms Hubert’s cold, drunken heart, though. He imagines Ferdinand, with short hair those days, desolate after the imprisonment of his father and the destruction of his house. And what does he buy with his first paycheck from the Black Eagle Strike Force, the first paycheck he ever truly earned himself? A bottle of wine. A bad bottle of wine. Even after these years, Hubert’s heart aches with affection for the man. He loves him. 

Ferdinand comes back, a delicate but sharp knife in hand. “I — actually — I originally bought it for something special, and then, as the years have passed, I thought of something no more special than this. So, I suppose, I saved it for this day, as I knew it would come.”

“That’s a lot longer than two years, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand shushes him once again, and once again, it does not work. 

So Ferdinand begins hacking away at the bottle with the knife, with absolutely no skill. There were so many little things Hubert would expect the noble to be good at that he was surprisingly abysmal with. Uncorking a bottle of wine, arranging flowers with any sense of aesthetic, or “sharpening his javelin” — which Hubert learns years later was apparently code for trying to spin a knife on his hand like he’d seen a schoolmate do once on the training grounds. He was horrible at it all, and it warmed Hubert’s heart.

Ferdinand is drunk, ecstatic, and terrible at uncorking wine bottles, so it makes sense when the knife is misaimed at the bottle’s cork, and ends up slicing against one of his fingers. 

Ferdinand lets out a little shout, which sounds mostly in surprise, and Hubert rises from where he sits on the couch. “I’ll get the medkit.” There’s only affection in his voice, no hints of sarcasm or sadism that so often slip into his tone from years of overuse.

He retrieves the medkit from where it's kept in the bedroom and fills up a basin with water. It was a small cut, it wouldn’t need stitches or anything, probably. Just lots of blood to be mopped and a bandage. When he gets back, he sits Ferdinand back down onto the couch and kneels by his side, and.

Ah. It was only an hour or so ago since they last sat like this. And yet, the feeling is completely different, just like Hubert had knelt to stitch him up over and over through the years. The sun sets through their window, and it backlights Ferdinand, so he can barely see the expression on his face. He looks worried, Hubert thinks, but also observant. There’s still some happiness there. It’s that pouty face that Ferdinand knows Hubert’s always been weak for. 

And there it is again. After all of these years! The feeling creeps into Hubert’s chest, and yes, there. He _wants_. He wants that part of Ferdinand again, pliant under his hands and shuddering under his needle. Here, on the day of their engagement, when they’re supposed to be in love, Hubert wants to see him hurt.

Hubert doesn’t know what to say, and for the first time ever sitting like this, his hands shake. “It doesn’t look too bad,” he says, pulling himself away from his own mind. Blood trickles down Ferdinand’s fingers onto the palm of his large hand. God, does it look delicious. He takes Ferdinand’s hand in his and inspects it. The cut is close to the tip of his ring finger, above where the new ring sits proudly. Any further up and it may have cut through one of Ferdinand’s perfect nails. “Not very deep at all.” He can’t stop looking at the way the blood is flowing, and stars. It had been so long since Ferdinand needed anything repaired on him, hadn’t it? Years since Hubert bandaged him last. But no, it had to be today. The day they’re supposed to celebrate their love, and Hubert is only involved in his own perversions. “Does it hurt terribly?”

“Goddess, Hubert,” Ferdinand huffs. “ Just put it in your damn mouth already.”

“What?” His head snaps up to look at Ferdinand, and away from his hand.

“My finger! Do you really think I do not notice what you like? Just suck the blood away, already, you are practically drooling.”

And he is. The fact that he might be allowed to do this, though, sends a shiver up his spine. He could really…? He looks back down at Ferdinand’s hand, and the blood dripping from it, down onto the delicate metal of his engagement band. How had Ferdinand known? How long had he known? This secret that Hubert has kept locked away, all these years? 

At some point, Ferdinand must decide that Hubert is taking too long, as a bloody finger is placed against his lip. “Open,” Ferdinand commands him. Hubert opens.

Inside his mouth, Ferdinand’s finger is salty and wet, and the taste of blood is metallic against his teeth. He feels himself grow hard in his pants. 

Once he is allowed, the floodgates open.

He licks the trail of blood up Ferdinand’s palm, and onto his finger. The ring is warm against Hubert’s tongue, from being on Ferdinand’s hand all this time. It feels so different than it had sitting cold in Hubert’s pocket all those years. Now it is warm, vibrant, covered in blood.

Once he gets to the tip of Ferdinand’s finger, he feels like he can never come back. He suckles on the skin like the sweetest of candies. His tongue draws lines across the wound, dipping in, sucking the blood away. Ferdinand tastes better than Hubert ever imagined he could, and in his mind, Hubert is thinking _this is happening, this is really happening._ He wants to stay there forever, sucking Ferdinand's blood from his hand, but eventually, he tastes only saliva and Ferdinand’s skin. The wound must have stopped bleeding.

Hubert doesn’t even notice his eyes have closed until Ferdinand draws his hand away from Hubert’s mouth. He opens them, dizzy and shocked at his own arousal. The wound has, in fact, stopped bleeding, tanned skin completely free of blood.

“Mm. And everyone at school said I was no good at scientific experimentation. But, you, Hubert, I can read like a novel.” 

He looks up at his — his fiance, and licks the blood from his lips. He wants more, he thinks, groin aching. There is no response he can say to that, to any of this. 

Ferdinand’s gaze on him is delicate, thoughtful but not judgemental. There is a small smile on his face, Hubert thinks. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” Ferdinand says, after a few lengthy moments of silence. 

Ah, but there was a response to that. “You’re welcome,” Hubert replies, dutifully, and takes Ferdinand’s fingers back into his mouth, lest more blood spill.

He knows that over the years, the decades they have ahead of them together, the ring will grow old and tarnished. But he hopes, somewhere in his heart, that this cut will scar and stay vibrant in the new era of Fodlan ahead of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's all, folks!!! 
> 
> please come chat with me [@lawfulboi](https://twitter.com/lawfulboi) on twitter! i have very few fe3h friends, and really want some more ideas for fic to write!


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